


Solvet seclum in favilla

by SgtPepper007



Series: EXO Oneshots [11]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Drinking, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Psychological, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 10:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20256418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SgtPepper007/pseuds/SgtPepper007
Summary: One particular night during World War II, a lonesome man wanders, death and sorrow at the citizens' feet.Countless people struggle to survive and find whatever means they can to decrease their agony, and Yixing is one of them.





	Solvet seclum in favilla

**Author's Note:**

> This oneshot was inspired a masterpiece I had the greatest honour and pleasure to perform, Benjamin Britten's ['War Requiem'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsSMCq7pl_k&t=240s).

_ Solvet seclum in favilla; _

_ Earth in ashes. _

  


_ Coventry, Britain _

_ 12:48pm, November 10th, 1940 _

The sound of the glass being put on the counter and sliding towards the man in front of it resonated in the almost empty bar over the soft tune that was playing, the rain hitting the windows perturbing its rhythm, yet adding a little bit more depth to the somber mood enveloping the place. The customer fished the only coins buried in his coat’s pocket, his hands even pocketing his pants when an amount was missing, when he managed to find the last coin he had in store. Those were the few savings he had managed to put aside, but he needed a glass of whiskey that night. If he would regret it later didn’t matter much to him at that moment. He could definitely use that small amount of money for more important things, but the night was cold and rainy and his soul was aching. He handed the coins to the server and said a quick ‘thank you’ in his broken English, the server merely taking them blankly and walking off towards the record player. He abruptly removed the record to replace it for another one, the screeching sound of the tonearm coming in contact with the record momentarily replacing the deafening silence of the bar. It only took a few seconds before a slow piano jazz song Yixing couldn’t recognise started to play. The server leaned next to the turntable, took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. The smoke coming out of his lungs gently filled the emptiness of the place, as lonely as the few men drinking their pains away.

Yixing took his first sip, slowly gulping the liquid and rejoicing the burning and harsh tingles it left as it slid down his throat. Alcohol wouldn’t end the war, but it would certainly accompany him through his despair. And it seemed like he wasn’t the only one; the three other men dispersed into different corners of the bar were all drowning in misery; eyes drooping in fatigue, faces wrinkled and frightignely aged, slow or fast gulps from their drinks accompanied by sighs of anguish, lifeless gazes, all while the song played, strangely suiting the morose atmosphere floating in their refuge.

Hanging out in the bars of the city wasn’t usually Yixing’s favourite activity. He was more the kind to buy a bottle when he could afford to and drink it alone in the place he was living at when his fellow coworkers were sleeping rather than drinking in public places with strangers, although he wouldn’t consider his coworkers as acquaintances or friends and that he actually was the stranger in this city, accustomed to the British sayings and accent, but still not quite fluent. Bars were usually loud, filled with workers with too much energy for his taste, trying too hard to forget their lives for a couple of hours or simply grumpy. His life was already miserable as it was; he didn’t need to hear more complaints about their common situations they had no power over and to drag the weight already crushing him outside of his workplace, or even pretend that getting drunk made him feel any better. However, the bars were unusually empty that night and Yixing couldn’t have been more thankful for it.

Tempted by the server’s cigarette smoke penetrating his nostrils, Yixing decided to light one as well. He took his cigarette pack out of his pocket and brought one to his lips, letting it dangle while he put the pack back in its initial place. He rumbled through his pockets again, thoroughly checking every corner he could. 

“Tā mā de!” he cursed lowly when he failed his task of finding his missing lighter. A clicking sound resonated shortly, Yixing looking at the waiter leaning over the counter, lighting his cigarette. He took his first drag on it, instantly getting pleasure from the sensation of the smoke flowing through his body and escaping his lungs when he slowly breathed out. The waiter did the same, one finger casually holding his cigarette to his lips while the other put the lighter on the counter and pushed it next to the customer.

“Take it. I’ve got a spare one in the back,” the waiter exclaimed, smoke flowing out of his mouth while pronouncing the words with a strong accent Yixing wouldn’t have caught a few months back.

“Thank you,” he responded, truly grateful while hesitantly taking the lighter and burying it in his pocket.

“Don’t mention it. I can’t imagine being out of fire during times like these. At least we can enjoy a little bit of smoke that isn’t coming from the factories or the bombs.”

The waiter took a last breath of cigarette before putting it out, crushing it on the ashtray next to them on the counter, smoke still faintly coming out of it and leaving a grey trail, colouring the lonely bar with its last gloomy breaths of life and matching the men's state of mind.

Yixing spent the next hour at the deserted bar, slowly drinking and being lost in his thoughts, accompanied by his glass of whiskey and his cigarettes, although he was mostly staring into emptiness. The smell of smoke was still lingering in the air when Yixing decided that it was time to take his leave. He wore his coat and dragged his feet outside of the bar before opening his umbrella. His steps were slow and unsteady as he let his fatigue overcome his senses, almost walking aimlessly around the too familiar neighbouring roads of the area. It probably wasn’t a wise idea to stay up so late when he had to get up in a few hours to spend the day working in the local metal factory, but he was feeling particularly blue that night. He wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway.

Each one of his steps were slow, his shoes covered by a thin layer of water as he didn’t pay attention whether he was walking into puddles or not. The rain was gently falling on his umbrella, the sound of the drops’ contact with the material adding more to his sour feelings. He wandered on the roads for a while, losing track of time and drowning in his thoughts as he observed the dark streets smelling of death and sorrow. Maybe he really did waste his small savings since the whiskey hadn’t fulfilled its purpose of keeping him company during his lonely night. The feelings brought by it were only fleeting after all.

While strolling around the dark and cold streets, he noticed the outline of a shape resembling a human body on the pavement. He got closer and found out that a man was lying there completely drenched, eyes closed and clothes clinging to his shivering body. A bottle of beer rolled around, its sound on the pavement echoing in the small alley when a breeze blew. Yixing observed the man for a while, standing still, and wondered what had happened to him. Sadly, the sight was too recurrent for it to move him like it used to, his compassion and sympathy having been long gone, only to be replaced by despair and hopelessness. What could he do? He was a mere immigrant that had managed to miraculously find a job outside of his home country, that was plunged into a war zone and that was acquaintanced with frequent mournings and distress. Their lives were equally as tragic. He was powerless; everyone was powerless. The richest and boldest ones, avid to find that power, did not hesitate to take innocent people’s lives away for their own benefit.

When even deeper fatigue hit Yixing, he crouched down towards the man and placed his umbrella over the man’s head, hoping to at least help him get a little bit of shelter from the cold air and rain, thankful that there wasn’t snow yet. The stranger lying on the ground didn’t lift an eyebrow, either fast asleep or too drunk to be aware of his surroundings. Both possibilities were as heart wrenching. Attempting to not give it too much thought, Yixing continued to walk, getting wet in a few seconds while walking in the lugubrious roads towards the place he was staying at, the city expressing its agony with its imploring tears, matching the lost and desperate souls living in it. When he reached it, he silently entered the cramped and modest apartment and lit the candle next to the door, his drenched feet making squeaking sounds as the wooden floor cracked as well when he was heading towards the bathroom to dry himself as much as he could. He had managed to not stumble on the other immigrants sleeping on the thin mattresses on the ground, to his relief. They needed to rest as much as him. They couldn’t communicate much since they were all from different countries, their questionable English being their only mean of communication, but they were hard working and good people, Yixing could tell after spending months sharing the same spaces night and day. He didn’t waste time changing his clothes and joined his fellow coworkers, finding his usual spot, lying down and making himself as comfortable as he could manage.

Even if he closed his eyes and tried to shut his thoughts down, it was pointless. Guilt was taking over him. Too often, he wondered if it was bad of him to somehow participate in the war while working in the factory, making the pieces of metal that were helping building war planes and weapons. He was indirectly handing a helping hand for something he hated and plunged the citizens into an unfair and unasked for fate. He wondered how his life would have been if he would have stayed in his birth city, even with the poor circumstances there. No matter how much he tried to free himself from his feeling of culpability, he always felt like it was wrong of him to work in the factory. He was indirectly a murderer.

The weight of the war and helpless souls around him were nothing but increasing each passing day and he was reaching a point of no return from how much it slowly killed him inside. He might not be at the front, throwing bombs and killing his ‘enemies’ with his own hands, but he saw the citizens in their deepest despair; he saw the occasional bombs falling in the city, corpses on the pavement of the streets, either of people dying of starvation or by surprise attacks from the neighbouring countries. He saw blood, fresh and dried, children and parents crying in agony, their expressions tainted in pure horror. He heard shots and explosions, he smelt the horrendous scent of death on a regular basis. He would never be the same; he could never be the same person as he used to be. Most of the time, he curled himself into a ball, eyes shot open during the night, wondering if a bomb would fall and take his life at any moment, or if he would suddenly have a gun shoved in his hands and be thrown into the battlefield, receiving instructions to become a monster, just like the others at the front. Those incessant thoughts were always lingering at the back of his mind, never sure about what would happen at any moment of the day, his senses heightened so he could notice any single thing that would be out of place or suspicious. He was constantly like a hawk, or rather like a fearful mouse surrounded by cats who were masters at their game of ‘hide and seek’.

When he realised that his body was trembling, Yixing suddenly started to think of his mother and his father as the darkness of dreamland was eventually, miraculously even, engulfing him, recalling their words of wisdom and faith as he tried to calm down from the painfully familiar anxiety that was peeking out and scratching his inner wounds. He should have bought a bottle of whiskey instead of a single glass. He took deep breaths and focused on their faces, their gentle words and their bright smiles he adored so much. Maybe if he would survive, he would go back to his hometown and meet them again.

____________________________

_ November 14th, 1940 _

_ 4 days later, _ _ on November 14th 1940, the Luftwaffe launched one of its most devastating bombing raid of the Second World War. The target was Coventry, a manufacturing city in the heart of England, an attack among many others. The attack holding the purpose of destroying their enemy’s factories and industrial infrastructures started in the evening of the 14th of November, continuing during the next day, the incessant attacks lasting for 11 hours. _

_ The streets were barely recognisable; 41 500 homes being damaged, around 2 500 people homeless, hundreds of deaths and injured citizens plunged into an unwarned misery, the city in flames and completely devastated. _

_ More importantly than homes; many people lost their families and friends, victims of a war they had no power over, victims of bombing raids and various attacks, their lives at the mercy of the people directing it. _

____________________________


End file.
